


A rousing game of bury the axe

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fisting, Kinda, M/M, Metal arm porn, Sex Pollen, because i have a military kink, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, dub-con, dubious mission details, he got sex-pollen whammied so, misuse of an axe-can, poor Brock, proper use of radio signifiers, sort of, that kinda takes consent out of the equation really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A mission goes very wrong when, in the remote cloud forest of northeastern South America, a spider of the most nefarious kind bites Brock's ass.Fortunately in his arsenal Brock has; the asset, a can of his trusty Axe, and a whole lot of man pain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have.. No justification for this. None.

/*/

**Day 12, 325 miles from Macapá, 1500 hours**

It is exactly 375 miles from Macapá, in the state of Amapá, Northeastern Brazil, to Camopi, in French Guiana. Brock knows this because they are currently 50 miles from Camopi, in the middle of Parque National something the fuck to do with mountains and something that sounds like tummy-macky.

He wouldn't know. He speaks Spanish and Italian, not Portuguese nor French.

All he knows is this is the twelfth day of hell, he's been bitten so many times his bug bites have bug bites, he cannot feel his feet in his boots, and even though a pincer formation to apprehend the Colombian insurgents had sounded like a fantastic idea at the time, it doesn't sound quite as good as it did 14 days ago - sat in a board room freshly showered and wearing dry, clean, clothing.

Then there's the additional issue - the one where Brock decided that if anyone was going to brave 14 days of uphill jungle and cloud forest it was going to be him and the Asset - he may have made a split decision upon hearing the insurgents had made it to the South-Western border of Venezuela, heading into Guyana, and he's not sure it was the right one. Sure it had sounded like a great idea at the time - he and the Asset could head up from Brazil into French Guiana, while Rollins and the others folded in from behind - dropping off in eastern Guyana and following the border towards Suriname.

Sure, in theory, the mountain rage on the Brazilian side of the Brazil-Suriname border should have created a nice corridor - and they should have them penned in somewhere between between them, air support put them somewhere in the region of the Suriname-French Guiana border three days ago, though they've only seen flashes of them since.

But the reality is this; Brock is tired, hungry, really wants to shower and shave, his deodorant ran out two days ago so he stinks like hell, and all he's got for company is a dead eyed robot that doesn't react to a single word Brock says to it when it's not a direct order.

He never thought he'd exactly miss Murphy's singing - keeps the morale up boss - but maybe the heat and exhaustion is starting to get to him; because he sure could damn well go for a round of show tunes right now.

What's that one the kid likes, about not being alone? From something called Into the Woods he thinks. Yeah, he could go for that right now. Nothing says alone like twelve days of trekking with only murderbot for company.

It's only half an hour later he realises he's started humming the tune under his breath, and cuts it off abruptly - last thing he needs is that rattling around inside his head on repeat for the last 50 miles.

The forest is quiet without it though - dripping water and the crunch of loose leaf litter beneath their boots mixing with birdsong. It'd almost be idyllic - if not for the fact they're moving uphill over uneven terrain, littered with rock beneath the loose packed soil, carrying upwards of 60lbs of gear on their backs. Well, Brock is anyway - but that's only because he loaded the Asset up with his other 20; there is one benefit to having it along, and that's not its charming personality.

As afternoon moves towards evening the sky darkens, the cloud moving down the mountain's slopes - a rolling bank of mist that makes the air wet to the touch. Like walking through a wall of water. At least the vegetation has thinned in the last 30 miles though - the Asset no longer needing to go ahead with the machete to hack unsuspecting vegetation out of their path, as the jungle gives way to cloud forest.

Brock isn't sure whether there are less fauna at this elevation, which would account for the loss of bird song, or whether it's the mist that hangs heavy in the air, enveloping them in a blanket of cloud and dampening the noise around them.

He calls a break just after 1900 hours and drops his pack to the ground, rifling through it in search of the radio. The Asset stands quietly beside him, pack still shouldered, like a sentinel - watching, waiting. Scanning the area continuously with that thousand yard stare that never lets up.

Brock resists the urge to crow triumphantly when he frees the communications gear from its waterproof pouch, and dials it up for the helicopter support crew that are supposed to be tracking the Colombian insurgents. He'll dial back and check in with Rollins and the other STRIKE team afterwards, soon as he has a location marker.

The radio crackles to life and he near sighs in relief when he hears the radioman's voice - he was worried the cloud cover and altitude would interfere with the communications; the equipment is field tested, and besides, it's Stark tech - so it shouldn't, but Brock subscribes to the school of thought that if you assume the worst, anything better is a bonus.

“This is Strike Support to Strike Alpha, over.”

Brock grins in response, drops down heavily to sit on his pack, stretching his booted feet out in front of him.

“Strike Alpha Six actual, request grid location for Strike Bravo, over.”

He can hear the rustle of paper that tells him the radioman is tracing his hand over the map spread in front of him, does his best to visualise it.

“Strike Bravo Five last contacted 1830 hours sir, last approximate grid position west quadrant of Grid 3, approximately 30 miles out from the Guiana border and the eastern quadrant of Grid 4, sir. Over.”

That makes Rollins and his guys what, 150km away from Camopi? Something like that. So the Colombians are somewhere between them.

“Confirm Strike Alpha grid position, Strike Support. Over.”

“Strike Alpha current grid position south eastern Quadrant of Grid 5 sir, approximately 18 miles from the Oyapok River, crossing at Camopi. Over.”

“Confirm last known target position, Strike Support.”

“Last sighted 1800 hours, southern quadrant of Grid 4. Approximately 30 miles from the Camopi River.”

Brock pauses a moment to add that to his mental map. When the Colmbians reach the Camopi River they have no reason to cross - they don't have the means to cross the larger Oyapok and would leave themselves backed into a corner. The great river separating French Guiana to their right and the mountain range behind, no. The Colombians will be following the Camopi River north until it meets the Oyapok, then onwards to the city of St George’s. They'll be able to join a passenger ferry there bound for elsewhere.  

Brock and the Asset will have 60 miles on them, maybe a little less after they cross the Oyapok. He's not looking forwards to that. At least the Asset got lumped with carrying their inflatable raft and the oil can, on top of the blisters and endless fatigue, Brock would have been tempted to dump it about six days ago.

“Roger and Out, Strike Support.”

He signs off and changes channels before dialling in for Strike Bravo. Whilst they're taking a break they might as well annoy his Executive Officer for a bit, or, he might as well anyway. The Asset wouldn't know what fun was if it danced naked in front of it.

“Strike Alpha Six to Strike Bravo, do you copy?”

He waits for a moment - the radio is strapped to the top of their packs, hence the waterproof covering, but it can take a few minutes to untangle the SAT transmitter and the microphone. He's rewarded for his patience a few minutes later when it crackles to life.

“Strike Bravo Four, copy.”

Murphy then, he grins. They all sound the fucking same on this tinny piece of shit. He leans forwards and presses the button, waiting for the light to blink before speaking.

“Strike Bravo Four, Request Strike Bravo Five, over.”

It's always a fun game to see whether Jack will respond - technically he doesn't need to; he's already radioed in to Support over half an hour ago, but Brock is ahead of Jack and the targets by 60 miles and there's nothing like having the chance to rub that in.

“Strike Bravo Five.”

Brock feels a grin crack over his face.

“Jackie! It's like Groundhog Day over here, you guys holding up okay?”

A sigh, barely audible over the static of the signal, but noticeable nonetheless.

“Can't restrain yourself from the radio chatter can you, Fury is going to kill you _Strike Alpha Six.”_

Brock shrugs, nothing like pushing his second’s buttons and getting his hackles up for a bit of cheap entertainment. Not like he can do it to the Asset anyway - the thing would just blink stupidly at him if it responded at all.

“Hey, what can I say? Have to keep it from getting boring right?”

He notes that Jack sounds okay though - he'd have had sharper words for him than begrudging disdain if anything had gone seriously wrong their end and Support weren't telling him. All present and accounted for if Rollins is getting huffy and not politely ignoring his ribbing in favour of worrying about some other issue.

“Roger, Strike Alpha Six.”

Oh that was snide though. Throwing proper protocol back at him as a means of private rebellion. Brock almost wants to congratulate him - until he remembers the whole purpose of his casual disdain of protocol around Jack is supposed to damage the other man's ego, not stroke it.

“You're no fun Rollins, was just checking in anyway.”

Time to get back to work then.

“Any new orders Strike Alpha Six?”

“Nah, Strike Alpha Six out.”

He stows the radio equipment back in its waterproof gear bag - attaching it to the top of his pack, before slinging the entire thing back over his shoulders.

They can rest after they cross the river - crossing into Grid 4 at Camopi before the targets get to the source of the Camopi River is the priority. It's sixty miles from the source to Camopi itself, but there's always the risk they've somehow _requisitioned_ canoes from the natives - and that would speed up their progress significantly.

At least they haven't run into any scouts, he thinks, mentally praising whatever deity deigns to listen - that was the main concern. The bridge from French Guiana into Brazil at St George's isn't officially open, illegal to cross - and with border forces from two nations stationed at either end. If anything is going to stop a Colombian insurgent warlord and his motley crew, it's not going to be whatever sparse border security two developing nations can spare, but it does make the second potential crossing point at Camopi the more likely option if they do try to cross the Oyapok. It'd be suicide when they haven't got the equipment, but warlord insurgents are not exactly known for their smarts.

The fact they've not run into anyone so far is no reason to be less vigilant though, and he's glad for the 250lbs of brute force he has for company.

They are a mile or so further east when Brock feels a tickling sensation on the back of his neck, and he reaches up an angry hand to swat it away. He is sick and tired of all these fucking bugs, he thinks, thank god his shots are up-to-date.

It's only after his hand makes contact with whatever it was, and a searing pain follows, that he realises he might have made a terrible mistake.

He stops abruptly, and the Asset, mindful as ever for changes in his body language, stops and wheels around where it's a few paces in front of him.

“Commander, status report?”

It's brusque and efficient in its speech - but instead of replying Brock stares at it, eyes wide in fear and disbelief as he feels the burning pain spreading; radiating outwards from the spot where whatever the fuck it was bit him.

He stands frozen in shock for a moment, and the Asset must take his silence for permission to act, because it strides forwards and tugs his pack off, uses its metal hand to swipe at whatever god forsaken hell beast had the audacity to crawl down the back of his neck.

“Phoneutria.”

The Assets voice is gravelly as always when it speaks, it's not like it gets the chance to do so often, but even so, Brock could swear he detects a note of moroseness. He grabs wildly at the straps on the front of its tac vest, shaking it a little - even as he notes doing so is difficult, as an odd stiffness renders his limbs into clumsy lumps of wood.

“What the hell is a Phoneutria, Soldat?”

The Assets eyes are wide, and it reaches out with its metal hand to trace over the spot on the back of his neck where it bit him. It must be bad for it to be affected this way, Brock thinks desperately, he's watched it dislocate a shoulder and pop it back into place with all the pomp and circumstance of a mildly inconveniencing stubbed toe.

“A spider. It is… venomous, Commander. We need to evacuate. Four hours.”

Brock feels a cold trickle of fear slither down his spine, and it has nothing to do with the hot pain spreading through his nervous system and making his blood pound hot in his ears.

“Four hours until what, soldier?”

The Asset swallows carefully, and Brock fixes his eyes on the metal hand that it raises to detach him from its tac gear, carefully peeling his fingers away where he's got them twisted tightly in the straps, turning them white with how hard he's clenching.

“Four hours until death, Commander. You require antivenin within the next two hours.”

Brock sits down on the floor with a thud. Ignores the Asset where it's trying to detach the comm gear from his pack in favour of staring at the canopy overhead. No civilisation for miles and he goes and gets bitten by some piece of shit spider that's apparently far more dangerous than any Colombian warlord has proven to be.

He's vaguely aware of the Asset dialling the radio into the support team, focuses on stretching his limbs and rolling his head from side to side to assess how bad the damage is. The pain is terrible, awful, worse than anything he's ever felt before and he's aware that his breath is coming in pants, sweat beading on forehead, though he's unable to do anything about it.

The venom must have a serotonin compound, he thinks, burn you up from the inside out.

“Strike Alpha Four to Strike Support, do you copy?”

“Copy Strike Alpha Four, go ahead.”

He wants to sob with relief when he hears the radioman's voice, but refrains, focuses on breathing as deeply as he can instead.

“Request immediate Medevac for Strike Alpha Six, suspected bite from Phoneutria Fera, over.”

“Copy, Strike Alpha Four. ASAP dispatch of a bird from Cayenne-Rochambeau Airport, code CAY. Distance to current Strike Alpha grid location 125 miles, expected evac 40 minutes after liftoff, over.”

Forty minutes, he thinks, and that's only after they scramble a crew and get the bird in the sky. He chews at his bottom lip, sinking his teeth into soft flesh to keep from moaning aloud. He can do that.

“Roger so far Strike Support, over.”

“Proceed 200 metres due North to acceptable Evac location.”

A pause, the soldier waiting for the support team to confirm the transmission is finished. Its adherence to procedure goes beyond being a stickler for regulation like Jack, Brock thinks, almost like it cannot function when things occur out of order.

“Keep him comfortable Soldat.. Over.”

Ah. So this is bad then, if even the radioman is worried about him being a possible casualty. There's no love lost there either, the man is green as as they come, and Brock has had no reservations in the past about displaying his opinion on that.

“Wilco, Strike Support. Out.”

The Asset cuts the transmission and pauses long enough to pass an assessing eye over his body where he's crumpled on the forest floor, huddled down in the leaf litter of fallen debris and the dirt like some crawling, squirming bug. It could kill him now, Brock realises with a wry sort of relieved half laugh that comes out as more of a cough, or just leave him here to die - doing nothing at all would be as much of a death sentence as breaking his neck and walking off into the night.

Instead it tucks the communications gear back into the waterproof bag, and reattaches it to the webbing on his pack.

Stupidly loyal idiot, Brock thinks.

/*/

He resists the urge to make a noise of surprise when the Asset loops an arm around his midsection and slings him over its shoulder; keeping him in place with its right flesh hand, grabbing his 60lb pack in its left.

He knows it's strong, and damn near indestructible, but even so this show of physical prowess is intimidating - he weighs close to 200lb and the Assets own pack is pushing 80.

As it pushes forwards up the trail, towards the promised Evac point, it's barely even breathing heavily.

In 200 metres, or there roundabouts, the foliage breaks for around 20 meters across - the rocky out cropping plateauing from the floor of the cloud forest. Not too big, but space enough to put a bird down in.

The Asset sets him down again carefully, dropping his pack down beside him, and Brock doesn't even attempt to restrain his moan this time. His veins are alight with liquid fire, and for some odd reason his cock is agony where it's pressed against the constricting fabric of his tac pants. Everything hurts.

Brock ignores the Soldier’s ministrations in favour of fixing his eyes on the low cloud cover above as it checks his eyes and reflexes. He's always surprised by the amount it retains when they pump it full of background mission intel - especially given its long term memory has all the capacity of a sieve.

He's aware his limbs are swelling, and is grateful when it helps peel him out of the tight tac jacket and weapons holsters - his breathing is a little strained too, and the last thing he needs is to choke to death because of his too constricting tac gear; like some inane fetish session gone wrong.

He pretends none of this is happening as it first presses carefully on the skin of his arms, checking for oedema, then strips the tac glove from its flesh hand so it can place two fingers to the pulse point on his neck. It must deem him stable enough for now, because it moves further down his body - stripping the holsters from around his thighs and placing his gear in an untidy pile.

Brock watches through slitted eyes, jaw clenched with pain, as it pauses when it reaches his waist - uses careful, nimble fingers to first pull his holsters free, adding them to the growing pile beside him, before unbuckling his belt. The relief when the top button of his pants comes undone is palpable - releasing the pressure of the constricting fabric against his sore and swollen dick.

He almost wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation; here he is lying on the bare earth of a rainforest floor, possibly about to die because of a damned spider of all things, and he's watching the Asset as it examines his raging erection. What the fuck even is his life.

It nods decisively before speaking, that disused voice as rough as ever. "The venom appears to have increased the levels of nitric oxide in your blood, causing priapism."

Brock snarls up at it, slapping a careful hand away as it brushes cool metal fingers over his forehead - pushing dark sweaty hair off his face where it's falling in his eyes. "Soldier, you can say it, it's given me a fucking boner.”

The Asset doesn't respond, but stands suddenly - stepping away to mess with his pack until it pulls the bed roll loose, spreading it out beside him for him to roll over onto.

Fine, Brock thinks angrily, turning his face away from where it's now stuffing his gear into his pack. He can just rest here until help comes. Everything is going to be fine.

/*/

There's still at least thirty minutes until Medevac arrives and Brock whines where he's laying face down on the ground, bedroll hastily spread out beneath him. The thin padding does little to cushion him from the rough surface of the rock beneath it, and the dips and ridges of the stone feel almost euphoric when he moves his hips - drags the head of his cock over them.

He ignores the Assets stare as he rocks back and forth - desperate for any kind of friction, of relief from this torture, his dick purple and angry and his body aflame with too much sensation. If only there was a chick nearby, some forest-dwelling uncontacted native or something. Hell, he'd take what he could get right now - a fleshlight would do.

He moans and buries his face in his folded arms; it's just not _enough._ Precum glistens at the head of his leaking cock, and there is an itch deep inside that he's desperate to scratch.

He jumps a little in surprise when booted feet crunch in the dirt beside him - he hadn't noticed the Asset moving - and he blinks up with hazy eyes, pupils blown wide, as it sinks to his knees next to where he's sprawled.

He doesn't even pull away this time, when it reaches out a hand slowly and brushes the hair back from his face - though he does jerk away from careful fingers when it pulls a familiar piece of black plastic from its pocket. The muzzle. They've not bothered with it the last few days - not like anyone in the middle of the rainforest is going to go running back to whatever intelligence agency screaming they know what a ghost story looks like. It'd be like claiming they'd seen Big Foot, for fucks sake.

The Asset doesn't slide the mask over its own face though; instead it ignores Brock’s admittedly feeble struggle to get away, and fastens it around his head. Brock blinks up at it, at it's still stoic expression, furious now - though unable to do anything where it has his wrists pinned under its flesh hand - it shakes its head calmly though, and brings a single metal digit to its lips.

“You are too loud.”

Right. Can't be too loud in case the insurgents have sent scouts ahead. Especially when he's vulnerable like this. Fuck. It's not like he forgot exactly, but other thoughts are taking priority right now.

He lets his body go lax and accepts it. So he has the soldiers muzzle on, big deal. He can still breathe okay, it's not like it's a problem. He can get through this without making a bigger fool of himself - protesting necessary precautions to the detriment of his own safety.

He floats for a few minutes, riding the waves and crests of pain assuaging his nervous system, and ignores the Assets quiet presence beside him; it's crouched like a stone gargoyle - unmoving -watching over him.

“You require assistance.”

That sure takes Brock by surprise. For one, it is apparently now speaking without needing to be prompted, but also, because exactly just what type of _assistance_ is it offering here? He glares up with mistrustful eyes, watches carefully over his shoulder even as it moves and settles down behind him - slowly and telegraphing its movements - as though trying to avoid startling him.

It reaches over to the pack tossed haphazardly beside him and pulls the gun oil loose, waves it in Brock's direction.

“Let me help, Commander.”

Brock isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. What, he's vulnerable and defenceless like this, so now it's decided it wants to fuck him? Like hell that's happening - he may be in agony, liquid fire burning him up alive, freezing his muscles where he lies, and unable to walk properly - but he's still not going to roll over like some bitch. He's better than that, stronger than that.

The Asset knows him far too well though, because it reaches out a hand and settles it carefully on his shoulder, grip strong like it knows he can take it. Knows that this doesn't make him fucking fragile or whatever.

“Just my fingers, it will help. Cold.”

Brock stares back at it, unsure whether he's hallucinating this entire experience. Whether any moment he's gonna wake up on Jacks couch after a night of heavy drinking, the aftertaste of hickory wings lingering on his tongue and last night's scotch drying his throat, making his head heavy.

He must lose time somewhere between staring back at the Asset in disbelief and some kind of agreement though; because the next thing he knows, his tac pants are pushed down around his knees and the Asset is snapping the lid off the container of gun oil.

Brock gasps out a garbled "Soldier..", and, against his will, a high keening noise slips between his lips as he presses himself back into the Asset’s lap.

Apparently unruffled by the ball of needy, whining Commander at his disposal, the Asset slowly eases one cold metal digit inside of him, slicked up with gun lubricant, while pressing his other palm down on the small of his back to keep him steady.

Brock forgets how to speak all of a sudden, the blessed, wonderful, friction pulling the words straight outta his mouth before he can even speak ‘em.

It stings at first, of course it does, not like this is a regular thing for him. But, perhaps aided by the soothing sensation of the cool metal, it doesn't take long for the sting to fade; quickly forgotten in favour of the way it makes his cock jump, endorphins making him heady as his eyes flutter closed.

The Asset, apparently completely unhurried, takes its sweet time with that single finger - moving slowly and dragging it out, until the metal has warmed a little from Brock's own body heat.

“Come on,” he whines, barely intelligible through the mask, forehead dropping forwards onto folded arms, fists clenched so tightly his nails dig little crescent moons into his palms. “I can take it Soldier, come on.”

It's so much, but at the same time, completely not enough - and he's not quite sure what he needs, but whatever it is, he needs it _now._ The stretch and burn as the Asset finally takes pity on him, slides a second finger in beside the first, that's enough to have his eyes rolling back in his head as soft whimpers rattle in his chest.

It's _so fucking good._

Brock reaches a hand between his legs, even as he rocks back into the Assets lap to get those fingers deeper inside him, desperate for some kind of friction on his aching cock. He's so hard it _hurts._ He moves frantically, the slide on his aching dick not aided by the gun lubricant the Asset is using to slick him open, and he's aware that the skin is going to be red and chafed later, but right now? Right now he can't bring himself to care.

The Asset apparently cares though, because it reaches forward with its free hand and pulls him backwards by the hair, so he's kneeling vaguely upright, back pressed to the Assets chest, it's fingers still buried in his ass.

Brock jumps a little at the low growl that reverberates through the soldier's chest when it speaks -“stop that, before you hurt yourself" - its face twisted into a thunderous expression, positively glowering at him, -and he can feel those eyes burning, like the Asset is trying to bore holes in the back of his head with its eyes alone, and he shudders under the gaze; neck arched backwards where those fingers are still tangled in his hair, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows roughly.

It's too much sensation all at once, heightened by the pain of liquid fire competing with the endorphins rushing through his veins, leaves him a limp feeble mess in the Assets arms.

A single bead of sweat rolls from his hairline down his neck with the strain of keeping upright, but he still doesn't remove his hands from his cock. Brock tries to speak; tries to explain that he doesn't think he's physically capable of doing so, not now, not when it feels like if he doesn't get off right this instant he might just fall apart at the seams. Burn up into nothing.

He shakes his head back and forth angrily, but only manages to gasp out “I need to fucking..” before he gives up on words entirely.

The muzzle ensures it comes out rather garbled anyway, so it's not like it's worth the expended effort.

But when he doesn't cease the ruthless rubbing at his dick, the Asset takes matters into its own hands. The fingers currently probing him open disappear  momentarily, and Brock feels a tugging where his pants are pooled around his knees, followed by the whirring sound of nylon on Kevlar. His belt has just been pulled free then.

He tries to turn and look over his shoulder to where the Soldier is kneeling behind him, but that metal hand, still slick from the lubricant, snatches his wrists together - and he feels the belt being looped first around them tightly, and then through the loops of his chest holster where it crosses mid back.

When the Asset pushes at his shoulders he topples forwards, face down on the bedroll, unable to throw his hands out to keep himself from hitting the dirt. Bastard has him trussed up like a turkey on thanksgiving.

He doesn't have much reason to protest though, because it quickly returns to where it left off, slipping a third finger in beside the other two, brushing his prostate and sending his head spinning.

He's glad for the muzzle in that moment, because he's not sure his speech is even coherent - just a jumbled mess of pleas and whines as he presses back as best he can without his hands free to use as leverage. His knees are going to give him hell after this, he's not as young as he used to be.

It's still not enough though, he needs more, every time the Asset brushes past that one place inside him, his cock jumps; drooling precome down his thighs and over the bedroll. Everything hurts and it's not enough and he feels like he's going to die.

Brock casts his mind quickly over his available options right now; there aren't many. He could always get the Asset to fuck him? But… Aside from the fact he isn't fucking gay, there's the small matter of whether or not that would give the stupid thing ideas about having some kind of dominance over him. Right now it seems to be under the illusion it's providing some type of medical assistance, he doesn't want to think about the potential consequences of it discovering that sexual pleasure is a thing. That it is capable of sexual pleasure, and therefore a person. It'd probably slit his throat after it got off.

_Shit, think!_

The Asset crooks its fingers a little and Brock howls behind the mask - it's not enough to send him over the edge, not quite, not when he can't get his hands on his dick, but he's close.

It apparently serves as a burst of inspiration though, because Brock suddenly remembers that the reason they both stink like shit is his deodorant ran out a few days ago. Axe cans are fairly phallic shaped, right? Rollins has sure teased him about that enough times for the thought to stick anyway.

It's worth a try, he thinks, and he'd shrug if he were still able to when his hands are hog tied behind his back.

“Soldat!” He tries to bark it like an order, but those now warmed metal fingers are doing deliciously wonderful things to his insides, and it comes out more like a moan.

The Asset stills anyway, tilts its head to one side as though waiting for orders - like Brock is capable of giving orders right now, he scoffs internally. Nice to know the thing still knows who's boss though, he guesses. It's the thought that counts, after all.

“Pack, front pocket, deodorant.”

He wonders for a moment if it's heard him, but then there's a cool rush of air as it slowly pulls out of him and pushes him gently off its lap. The new position, lying flat on his stomach, pulls at the taut swollen muscle at the back of his neck, and he notes with revulsion that it's making him feel nauseous. The last fucking thing he needs is to throw up with the muzzle on.

He breathes deeply for a few moments, tries to quell the roiling in his stomach and stop the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes from spilling over. He's not a fucking pussy, he can handle this.

He just wishes he wasn't so _empty._ The absence of the Assets fingers has left him feeling like he's gaping wide open, and his cock, purple and painful between his thighs, won't let him stop thinking about how he wants to be filled right up to the brim.

Christ, maybe he's gay after all.

If Rollins got bit by this thing he'd probably have just shrugged it off, right? Didn't the guy live in Australia? Land of the venomous spiders. He'd have probably got up and walked it off; he certainly wouldn't be a whimpering, pathetic mess - lying at his own weapons feet with his ass gaping and tears spilling down his face, all because he wants something in his ass and someone to touch his dick.

The Asset slides to its knees beside him a few moments later, and he's vaguely aware of human fingers carefully brushing the tears from his cheeks. He shakes his head angrily - he doesn't need coddling right now.

The Asset must understand though, because it pulls away - probably grateful for the muzzle before Brock teaches it just what it's like to get bitten - and settles back down behind him.

There are cool fingers pressing at his entrance again only moments later, and a strong forearm wrapped around his middle, dragging him onto the Assets lap so it can get a better angle. Brock fucking whimpers when those slick fingers pull away again and he's beyond worrying how needy he sounds.

It's only a moment later though, when they're replaced by a blunt pressure against his fluttering rim - and when the Asset reaches forwards, stroking his dick from length to tip as it slowly slides the Axe can in, he throws his head back and screams. It's too much and not enough and he needs _more._ More friction, deeper, harder, more _everything._

The cool metal of the can slides past his prostate, the Asset speeding up its ministrations, and he writhes backwards against that muscular chest, hands grasping at the front of its tac gear where they're still bound behind his back.

It's too much and never enough and his thighs are slick from precome, drooling from the tip of his weeping cock, purple and painful, and it's so much sensation but his body's on fire and he doesn't even try to stop the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“More Soldier.”

The Asset pauses, allows the can slide backwards slowly, making Brock's skin crawl with the sensation, until its slipping loose from where his ass is stretched around it with a wet pop. He feels so empty, his insides so cold. He's gearing himself up to complain when he feels the cool metal of the Assets fingers return; four this time he'd guess, stretching him wider, greedy hole twitching around the stretch. Then he feels a fifth blunt digit join them.

The Asset strokes at the rim of muscle for a moment, even as it crooks it's other fingers inside of him, brushing past that spot that makes him squirm in its lap, a mess of sensation, hair sticking to a sweat-damp forehead, the muzzle not cutting off his air supply, but restricting it enough that he feels a little light headed as his breath comes in pants. Chest heaving, pupils blown wide.. He can only imagine the picture he paints rights now. Greedy little slut. Far as can be from the vicious Commander that led his troops out two weeks ago.

The Asset slides its thumb in beside the other four digits, and Brock would scream again if he had enough air in his lungs.

It's too good, and the stretch as the Asset sinks knuckles deep has him unsure if he's even still on this planet. It hurts, oh it fucking hurts, but he's shaking apart and coming back together at the same time - and then it fucking twists and he sees stars.

He doesn't realise he's crying until he comes to a few minutes later; the bedroll beneath him striped with come, and his cock still hard and weeping despite the release. There are soothing hand brushing the hair from his eyes and smoothing his shirt down, strong arms catching his boneless body as he tumbles backwards, untying his hands and laying him down to rest on his back.

The Asset carefully tilts his head up to pull the mask free, letting him take deep, gasping breaths that rattle in his lungs as he holds in sobs - a last ditch attempt at regaining composure.

It moves away after a moment, gives him the space he needs to recover himself. To find the pieces of himself, scattered as they are over the forest floor, and tie himself back together.

/*/

“How much longer?”

The Asset pulls the sat phone from its pack, and taps at the screen for a moment.

“Five minutes, approximately.”

Brock groans and tried not to ponder too much about how the edges of his vision have gone all dark and a little blurred. The way his cock still stands taut from his stomach, bright red and a little chafed from his abrasions earlier.

The Asset leans forwards and methodically begins tidying him up a little, tucks his dick back into his briefs, though it doesn't refasten the constricting fabric of his Kevlar woven tac pants.

It's nice he thinks, having it dote on him like this. Its concern is… Endearing.

He grabs the front of its tac jacket, stopping it's ministrations for a moment so he can hiss out an order. “This doesn't fucking go in the mission report, okay?”

It looks surprised and nods, blue eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as though taken aback by the suggestion of there being a risk that it would.

“Of course not, Commander. Strike Support have already been notified of the need to administer basic medical assistance.”

Brock nods, reluctantly lets his head fall back against his pack - the brief burst of adrenaline, fuelled by fear alone, ebbing quickly - forgone in favour of relief when, over the sounds of the forest around them, he hears the chopper in the distance. Closes his eyes where he's laying on the dirt of the forest floor, the scent of moss heavy in the air, petrichor rich, he's in safe hands.

/*/


End file.
